Harry Potter and the Looking Glass House
by Potter47
Summary: After Harry's fifth year, a new neighbor turns up on Privet Drive--what does he want with Aunt Petunia? Why are the students acting so strangely--cursing even their closest friends? And will the new professor present answers--or only more riddles? Pre-HBP
1. Number Seven, Privet Drive

HARRY POTTER _and the_  
LOOKING-GLASS HOUSE  
_by Potter47_

— CHAPTER ONE —  
NUMBER SEVEN, PRIVET DRIVE

The inhabitants of the quiet neighborhood of Little Whinging had, for the most part, lazed away the first month of their summer in the typical fashion—inside their homes, allowing their top-of-the-line air conditioning units to (essentially) eliminate the season entirely, creating instead the illusion of a continuous temperate climate as unchanging as their front lawns—but on the thirtieth of July, something _undeniably_ unusual happened. Something _incontestably _inconsistent. Something extraordinary, something outlandish—something _strange_.

On the thirtieth of July, at precisely five-fourteen in the lazy afternoon, on an otherwise peaceful, unsuspecting street, a most fantastic vision appeared to the residents of Privet Drive: a moving van.

Not one of the housewives of Privet Drive (for they were all, for the most part, standing in their front rooms with their noses practically pressed against the glass of their bay windows, watching intently) could remember the last time such a vehicle appeared on their street. Everyone who lived on Privet Drive had lived there for as long as just about anybody else could remember, except for the children, (who had admittedly lived there for as long as _they_ could remember, to be sure).

Surely, nobody had _ever _moved _away _from Privet Drive—why on earth would they, after all? What possible negative opinions were there to be had about such a pleasant, agreeable, _charming_ place to live?

But now, it seemed, someone simply _had _to have moved away—or else, how could somebody be moving _in_, right before the Privet-ians' very noses?

Now, try as they might, none of the housewives could _quite_ recall the previous residents of number seven, Privet Drive—but, for one reason or another, this peculiar detail did not particularly bother them. What _did _bother them rather outrageously was that, somehow, they had all managed to miss the exodus itself. What gossip they might have shared over the unheralded departure! What a wasted opportunity!

Instead, they would have to settle for the inevitable gossip which the new Mr. Number Seven would generate. For it _did_ appear to be a single tenant—male, fortyish, and (best of all) strikingly handsome, from the look of him. Petunia Dursley, for one, who lived directly across the road at number four, first spotted the new resident carting a large, ornate golden mirror out of the van and across the (slightly unkempt, by the standard of Privet Drive) front lawn, and found herself entirely unable to look away for the better part of the afternoon.

Petunia surveyed her new neighbor as he brought box after box from the van to his front door, many of which were tall and flat like the first, and then as he began transporting his smaller pieces of furniture.

"I suppose he doesn't have any help?" Petunia murmured to herself. "No family to speak of…"

He was a blond man, moderately tall, wearing quite the outlandish assortment of clothes—all brightly colored, none the slightest bit appropriate to be worn during the dog days of summer. Ordinarily, this assault on normality would have caused Petunia to sneer at the offender in question with a most unattractive expression of utter disgust… but there was something overwhelmingly pleasant in this man's features, which miraculously managed to overcome his despairing fashion sense.

After the man began to tackle a rather large piece of furniture (a pale purple loveseat with a fancy sort of embroidery upon the cushions) Petunia decided that something simply _must _be done to help this lonely, _lonely_, (extraordinarily handsome) man.

"Diddykins!" Petunia called over her left shoulder, curling her long, wrinkly fingers about her mouth in an unsightly imitation of a megaphone. "My big strong boy!"

"What?" came the disinterested reply—the voice belonging to Petunia's teenage son, Dudley Dursley, who was presently in his bedroom lethargically annihilating a zombie on his computer.

"Dudley, I've got a job for you!"

There was no reply—possibly, Dudley was struggling to comprehend her sentence.

Petunia left her position at the window and walked briskly up the stairs, knocking twice, sharply, upon Dudley's bedroom door. When there was no further response, she swung the door open.

"Wha—?" said Dudley, who was not at all used to having his privacy invaded by his mother (or anyone, for that matter) and was unsure of how to react to it now that it had happened.

"I said that I have a _job_ for you, Diddy!" repeated Petunia, her voice positively dripping with motherly enthusiasm.

Dudley stared at her, blankly.

"What… what do you mean?"

Petunia smiled her sickening Oh-My-Baby-Dudley-Smile.

"We have a new neighbor across the road in number seven," she said, "and he is unpacking all of his things from the van _all by himself—_do you believe it? Now, wouldn't it be a nice thing for a big strong boy like you to do… to help him a little bit?"

Dudley blinked, and then: "You want me to—"

"It would make _such_ a wonderful impression after all, and we want to be good neighbors, don't we?"

"Help him yourself," said Dudley, turning back to his computer screen. "Or tell Potter to do it."

"Ha!" said Petunia, and then paused, shivering at the thought. "What a disgrace it would be for that… that _boy_ to be this nice man's very first impression of our family!"

The Potter in question was Petunia's nephew Harry—the son of her late sister, Lily—who had lived with the Dursleys for the past fifteen years.

Petunia continued: "Oh, goodness no… he would think we were all—_freaks!_" she spluttered, eyes bugged out in her revolting excitement. She added: "But _you _would make such a _delightful_ impression! Who could resist your adorable little face—"

Dudley groaned, slamming the space bar of his keyboard with a great deal more than the required force, and sending a zombie exploding off into the distance. "Come on, Mum— I'm _busy!_"

Petunia sighed, disappointed, and moseyed back down the staircase, furrowing her brow, unquestionably attempting to formulate some alternate plan for the proper introduction of the Dursley family into this new neighbor's life. She returned to her post by the window, and was surprised to find that the man was pulling shut the door on the back of the van—he had _finished? _It must have taken a prodigious effort, but somehow, yes, he had managed to empty the van in the time it took her to speak with Dudley. There were now only a handful of boxes left, scattered across the front lawn.

"What an admirable work ethic," Petunia mused to herself, as she heard the key turn in the lock on the front door. A moment later, the door opened to reveal her husband, Vernon Dursley, who let out a groan which sounded both extremely frustrated and astonishingly relieved.

"Good evening, Vernon," Petunia said, still watching the man across the way. He had begun on the final boxes, now.

Vernon mumbled a greeting, walked into the kitchen, unfastening his tie as he went, and then stomped back into the front room, aghast.

"Where is dinner?" he demanded.

Petunia blinked. "Oh—well—I haven't started preparing it yet, actually—"

"What!" exclaimed Vernon. "I come home after a long, ungodly day at the firm and you haven't even _begun_ to make my dinner—"

"We have a new neighbor, dear," said Petunia, attempting to steer the subject away from her neglected duty. "You see, I've been—"

"Oh dear god, Petunia, don't tell me you've been watching the neighbors and _forgetting entirely_ about my dinner? Who is more important, hmm? This new—_neighbor_ of ours, or your own _husband?_ Who buys you all of your clothes, hmm? Not that rotter, no sir!"

Petunia glanced from the handsome, sprightly man across the road (who was now quite nimbly carrying a large box under one arm) to her husband, who then plopped in a garish display of corpulence onto the sofa and flicked on the television, harrumphing in incredulity to himself as he did so. She sighed, took one last glance at the charming stranger, and set off to prepare dinner.

Upstairs, in the smallest bedroom of the Dursley household, next door to the room in which Dudley was still blasting away at his zombies, a teenage boy sat on his bed, staring out of his window at the summer evening—rather like all of the housewives were doing in all of their neighboring households, actually. This boy, however, had no interest to speak of in the moving van, or in the new Mr. Number Seven. This boy was Petunia's nephew, Harry Potter—who had recently finished his fifth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—and he was watching the skies.

July the Thirtieth, in addition to being the day that the moving van turned up on Privet Drive, also happened to be the day before Harry Potter's sixteenth birthday. Harry was hoping that a number of owls might turn up outside of his window, left wide open to spite the Dursleys' air conditioning, bearing birthday presents—even if it _was_ a few hours early. In the past, the owls had never arrived until after the clock had already struck midnight, but that did not stop him from anxiously awaiting their appearance, and wishing that they might hurry it up a bit.

_Ah, but there won't be as many owls this year_…

Harry couldn't help but think once again of his godfather, Sirius Black, who had been dead for nearly a month and a half. Sirius certainly would not be sending Harry a birthday present this year—how could he, from behind the veil in Death Chamber of the Department of Mysteries? The last present Harry _had_ received from Sirius had been a two-way mirror that would likely have been entirely capable of preventing Sirius' death, if only Harry hadn't been stubborn enough to ignore it completely. He closed his eyes; he got a headache just _thinking_ about that night. Not a pain in his scar, not anything magical—just a headache, an awful, pounding reminder, and to be honest, he didn't even mind the pain, because he was positive that he deserved it.

"POTTER!"

Harry groaned softly, stood, and (rubbing his palm against his forehead in a half-hearted effort to dull the ache) opened his bedroom door.

"YES?" he called down the stairs.

"FOOD, NOW OR NEVER!"

It was his Aunt Petunia who was doing the shrieking. Harry glanced at the clock on his bedside table—it was about seven o'clock, rather late for dinner in the Dursley household—and then back out the window, one last time. The owls would not be arriving for a few hours yet, anyway, so he marched resolutely down the stairs (which he noticed were beginning to squeak rather more spectacularly than they had in the past) and into the kitchen, where Uncle Vernon and Dudley were already seated at the table, impatiently awaiting supper.

"About time now," muttered Uncle Vernon, spearing a fork through his steak with a bit more force than was entirely necessary.

Petunia slid a plate bearing a few exceedingly thin slices of steak in front of Harry and returned to her work at the counter, while Dudley and Vernon ravenously gorged themselves on their heaping hunks of meat. Harry glanced at his pitiful serving, shrugged, and ate them without complaint—he was certainly used to this sort of treatment, and he had not been feeling exceptionally hungry, anyway.

"Izzat puddin?" gobbled Dudley, referring to the dessert that Petunia was working on at the counter.

"Yes," said Aunt Petunia, "but it's not for us."

Dudley—who had been glowing quite blissfully, both from his current feasting and the from added prospect of dessert—was positively outraged.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT'S NOT FOR US?"

"Come now, calm down, dearie—it's a _housewarming_ present," said Aunt Petunia. "When someone moves onto your street, you're supposed to make a good impression, you know, and so I thought I might whip something up—"

"Not that bloody new neighbor again," said Vernon, shaking his head. "Why don't you just—"

"Oh, _please_, Vernon, you just _know _that all the other girls will have made something, I don't want them to think I'm… _slacking off_…"

By this point, Harry had had enough, and silently excused himself from the table. He headed back up to his bedroom, taking the stairs two at a time—and preparing himself for the disappointment he'd be facing in just a few moments when he would find his bedroom just as inexorably owl-less as it had been when he'd left…

But when he threw open his bedroom door, he found his room wasn't owl-less after all—there, sitting upon the perch in the cage on Harry's desk, was a most pleasantly familiar snowy owl.

"Hey, Hedwig…" said Harry, smiling rather half-heartedly. He hadn't been feeling very much up to smiling lately. He furrowed his brow, looking at the owl quizzically. "But… what've you brought—?"

He had last sent the owl to Hermione with a letter—surely she would have, at the very least, sent back a reply, if not a gift for his birthday?

Harry glanced around the room, seeing no immediate additions in the form of envelopes or packages, but finally he did spot something new: the tiniest of boxes, which had clearly been dropped by Hedwig onto his bedspread en route to her cage. He quickly snatched it up, tore off the ribbon and unwrapped the brown paper to find a small, scarlet box patterned with thin golden designs all around the edges. In the very center of the front was a clasp in the shape of a lion's head, its infinitesimal teeth locking the top of the box into its bottom. Overall, it was about the size of the jewelry boxes Aunt Petunia attacked ravenously every twelfth of July, when she and Uncle Vernon celebrated (or perhaps more accurately, endured) their wedding anniversary. But why would Hermione have bought Harry a piece of jewelry?

Harry unclasped the box, opening the lion's mouth to find inside it not a ring or a necklace but instead a piece of paper, folded up very tightly into a minuscule little square which sprang open slightly now that it had more room to move about.

_Did she run out of envelopes? _Harry wondered, hastily unfolding the paper to its proper size—he was surprised by his own eagerness. He had last heard from Hermione only a few days before, and had heard from Ron shortly before that, but he found himself with an uncanny _hunger _for the words of his best friends; he missed them painfully.

The letter read:

_Dear Harry,_

_I hope you like the box! I found it in an antique shop in my town, this lovely old place that my dad is rather crazy about, and I thought of you. I know you must be thinking that it's an awful birthday present, what are you going to do with a box, and so on and so forth, but you'll have to admit, you are a tremendously difficult person to shop for. What to buy for the wizard who never asks for anything?_

_Anyway, I think it's just a beautiful little box, Gryffindor colors and all, and although it's not quite as practical as I might have hoped, I'm sure you'll find some sort of use for it. If you'd like, I could experiment with some sort of a space-enlargement charm on it when we get back to Hogwarts. I would have done so already if I'd had the nerve to risk doing magic at home. (Next year you can expect a proper, spectacularly magical sort of gift, I promise.)_

_I do hope your family is not treating you too terribly. I know that you've said that they're not, but to be completely honest I'm not sure I believe you. You recall when you didn't report being tortured by Umbridge to Dumbledore? I rest my case. _

_Let me know how you're doing. Really. I mean it. _

_With love from,_

_Hermione_

_P.S.: I've just gotten a letter from Ron, he thinks we'll be able to go to the Burrow soon!_

_P.P.S.: Happy birthday! I completely forgot to write it, how foolish of me!_

Well, that was certainly Hermione. Harry quickly read through the letter again, and then one more time, imagining Hermione's voice reading them out loud in his head. His chest ached rather uncomfortably—he missed his friends.

Harry placed the letter down on his desk and turned his attention back to the box it had arrived in. It _was _a nice box—as far as boxes went—and he could see why Hermione had liked it so much. The scarlet and gold would certainly match his dormitory at Hogwarts—although that only made Harry think of the last time he had been _in _his dormitory¸ when he had found the two-way mirror—which in turn led him back to thoughts of Sirius—which were not the sort of thoughts he liked thinking all that much.

"YOU WILL NOT LEAVE THIS HOUSE!"

The voice, his uncle's, had erupted so suddenly that Harry nearly dropped his birthday present onto the floor. He glanced towards his bedroom door—Vernon couldn't possibly be yelling at _him_, could he? What on earth could he have done to prompt such a shout? And why would Vernon want him to _stay?_

"I will go where I want, _Vernon!" _came the shrieking reply from Aunt Petunia. "And I won't even be gone for more than ten minutes!"

So Uncle Vernon had been yelling at _Aunt Petunia_? This was practically unheard of in the Dursley household—Harry had always thought his aunt and uncle were so perfectly suited to one another that they agreed on every topic known to man. What could possibly have caused such a row between them?

Harry heard a door slam—the front door, presumably. _She must be taking that pudding to the new neighbor_, Harry thought idly. It seemed a silly thing for Uncle Vernon to get so upset about—but then, Vernon had never restricted his tantrums to only _reasonable_ things.

Harry looked out of his window, watching as Petunia scuttled her way across Privet Drive with her elaborately prepared pudding, to impress the new neighbor. Harry couldn't remember there being a new neighbor on Privet Drive for as long as he had lived there—as far as he knew, no one had moved there since he himself had been left on the Dursleys' doorstep as a baby. Still, he couldn't muster up very much excitement at the prospect of a new neighbor.

He watched as Aunt Petunia attempted to neaten up her appearance while managing the pudding with her other hand—tugging at her blouse, fluffing her hair to no noticeable effect—and finally rang the doorbell. Harry could tell by the way she straightened her shoulders that she was putting on her Friendly Neighborly Petunia look—which Harry had seen more than enough of over the years, so he turned his back on the window and back to his birthday present.

Technically he was still only fifteen, but this present—as impractical as it was—marked the real beginning of his birthday. He was nearly an adult now—only a year off from officially being of age, from being able to leave the Dursleys forever. He could not wait for that day—and when he thought about it, it amazed him at how fast the years had gone by. It seemed only yesterday that he was living in the cupboard under the stairs, hardly daring to wish he might ever have a friend, let alone that he was really a famous wizard. The very idea would have seemed absolutely ridiculous.

Soon, Harry's reminiscing led him into a fitful sort of sleep—one rooted, like his waking thoughts, in his memories, but not nearly so benign in nature. He dreamt that he was back in the Department of Mysteries, running from the Death Eaters, and then suddenly Sirius was beside him, running as well, but they were so fast, the Death Eaters, and no matter how quickly Harry and Sirius ran, it seemed sickeningly inevitable that they would catch up. Without warning, they reached the Death Chamber, and Sirius was standing in front of the archway, in front of the veil, and Harry was screaming, screaming with all the air in his lungs, and then Sirius began to fall—but then he wasn't Sirius at all, he was Aunt Petunia, and the archway wasn't the archway, it was the doorway to number seven, Privet Drive, and she was falling to her doom with a freshly prepared pudding in her hands—and then, instead of disappearing into nothing, she fell out the other side of the doorway, but she was still on the outside as well, so the arch—for somehow, it was still the arch, even though it wasn't?—was like a bizarre sort of mirror, reflecting her and her pudding back at one another—and then a great big scarlet and gold box appeared from nowhere, stampeding onto the scene, and the lion clasp ate both Petunias in one gulp—and Harry woke up, barely remembering anything at all.

"Oh will you just give it up, Vernon, he was a perfect _gentleman_… unlike _some _people I could mention…"

The voice was Petunia's, once again—and once again, Vernon hollered in response:

"I will not have him in this house! I won't have it, Petunia!"

"It's just a quick bit of breakfast, Vernon, it's the neighborly thing to do…"

Harry opened his eyes, not entirely sure of how long he had been asleep—it had felt like just a quick sort of nap, but his bedroom was bright with morning sunshine, so he must have slept through the night.

Groggily, he blinked a few times and propped himself up on his shoulders—he was still in his jeans and t-shirt from the day before, which always brought an unpleasant, uncomfortable sort of feeling in the morning.

"He's here! _Please _be civil, Vernon!"

Another moment, and Harry heard the front door open.

"Good morning, my dear!" came a distinctly non-Dursley sort of voice. (Vernon harrumphed loudly at the neighbor's choice of words.) "Thank you _so very much _for inviting me, you're too kind…"

"Oh, no trouble at all, no trouble at all…"

"Here, I brought chocolates!"

Harry furrowed his brow. The voice sounded strangely familiar.

Harry listened, half-awake, to the small talk which wafted its way up the stairs of number four, Privet Drive—something about this man's manner seemed so very familiar that Harry could not help but grow intently curious as to who exactly the man was. Certainly he had never met him before—anyone that would willingly move to Privet Drive did not exactly sound like the sort of person who travelled in the same circles as Harry—but still. It was uncanny.

Harry rose out of bed and creeped silently down the hallway, and began to descend the stairs in a similar stealthy fashion when one of the steps gave an enormously audible _SQUEAK!_ and the small party in the Dursley's front hall looked immediately in his direction. Aunt Petunia looked furious—clearly she had not been anticipating such an intrusion—but it was the other face which Harry could not take his eyes off of.

"Well, hello there! And who might this fine young man be?"

Petunia opened and closed her mouth a few times before formulating a proper introduction.

"Ah—well. _This… _this is my nephew, Harry. He's an orphan, you see, and Vernon and I took him in when he was a baby." She paused, smiling her proud, Aunt Petunia smile, clearly satisfied with the philanthropic light she had managed to cast upon herself and her husband. After a moment, she added: "Harry, this is our new neighbor, Gil."

Harry did not respond—he merely stared at the man, who smiled winningly back at him in with a cheerful, Nice To Meet You sort of smile. But this was not the first time the man had met Harry Potter—in fact, they knew each other rather well. Harry wasn't sure what to make of it, but there it was, right in front of him:

Gilderoy Lockhart was standing in the Dursleys' front hall.


	2. The Return of Gilderoy Lockhart

HARRY POTTER _and the  
LOOKING-GLASS HOUSE  
__by_ _Potter47_

— CHAPTER TWO —

THE LONG-AWAITED RETURN  
OF GILDEROY LOCKHART

The days crept by—the first of August, then the second, the third, all utterly uneventful. A week had passed before anybody knew the difference—the days hot, humid, blending into one another like a ghost into a hazy mist—and soon, August was nearly a third over with.

Before Gilderoy Lockhart's appearance on Privet Drive, Harry might have expected to spend these days lazing about on his bed doing nothing in particular—maybe enjoying the year's harvest of birthday presents (which, as it happened, included a book of Quidditch photographs from Ron, continually reenacting some of the most spectacular plays from the previous season; a box of chocolates from Ginny; and a tiny note from Fred and George promising a brilliant surprise to arrive within the next few days, a sentiment which made Harry more than a teensy bit wary)—but indeed, the days progressed in a _far_ less enjoyable fashion.

Harry had been increasingly on edge since the morning of his birthday, when he had first seen Lockhart downstairs, merrymaking with Aunt Petunia. He'd spent the majority of the following days crouched in front of his window, peering out across the street at number seven, as though he thought it might explode at any moment. Really, he was no better than all the housewives of Privet Drive, who spent their time snooping on the neighbors in a no-doubt similar fashion.

This, however, Harry did not mind so much—what irked him to a far greater degree was Lockhart's inability to remain cooped up in his new house for long—invariably, he would turn up at the door of the Dursleys' home in the early afternoon and spend hours chatting away with Aunt Petunia over a seemingly endless supply of tea, only departing when Uncle Vernon was due to be home from work. Harry spent _these _hours sitting beside his bedroom door, which he left open just the slightest bit so that he could hear the goings-on below. It seemed to him that Lockhart and his aunt had rapidly become the very best of friends, and he did not like it one bit.

So far, Lockhart had given no impression whatsoever that he recognized Harry—or, indeed, that he was a wizard at all. Of course, any admission of the magical variety would have immediately soured the budding friendship with Petunia—but arrcercertainly, making friends couldn't _really_ be Lockhart's _only_ intention in moving to Privet Drive? It had to have something to do with Harry... and more than likely, it had something to do with Lord Voldemort.

As soon as Harry had returned to his bedroom on that first day, he had written two very similar letters, both regarding Lockhart's arrival—one to Hermione, sent with Hedwig, and one to Ron, sent with Pigwidgeon, who had (along with Errol) just delivered the Weasleys' gifts to him. He wanted to know what they thought Lockhart might be up to, and what he should do about it. Just before giving the letters to the owls, he remembered to jot down hurried thank-yous for the presents, as well.

The replies had both arrived by the next evening. Hermione's came first, which Hedwig dropped rather unceremoniously onto Harry's head before flying back into her cage—Harry thought perhaps she was tired of flying back and forth to Hermione's house, and wanted something a bit more exciting to do.

"Sorry, Hedwig," said Harry as he tore open the envelope. "Next time, maybe."

_Dear Harry, _

_That certainly does seem to be rather out of the ordinary, but I don't think there's any sense in jumping to conclusions… Dumbledore's said many times that you're perfectly safe at your aunt and uncle's, so if Lockhart had any intention of doing you harm, surely he wouldn't be able to come that close? _

_You probably won't even entertain the idea, but I do think it might be possible that the whole thing is a coincidence. (Don't you harrumph at me, Harry, hear me out!) The last time we saw Lockhart, he seemed almost completely out of sorts, but he HAD been making progress, remember? Well, maybe he's recovered enough so that he could function in Muggle society but not quite enough to be able to live as a proper wizard, and it was just sheer coincidence that the house they assigned him to was so close to yours? I've looked it up, they DO do that sort of thing at St. Mungo's—temporary relocation, so that the patients don't have to stay in the hospital quite so long—and the more I think of it, the more it seems to be the only reasonable explanation… _

_Regardless, I think you'd be wise to write to Dumbledore, just in case—he should know about anything unusual, don't you agree? Let me know if anything else happens, and I hope to see you soon._

_With love from,_

Hermione

Ron's reply came soon after, and it sounded slightly different:

_Harry,_

_ARE YOU BLOODY JOKING? This has got to have something to do with You-Know-Who. I would've sooner expected Ludo Bagman to move into the flat above Fred and George's shop—things like this don't just HAPPEN, you know? _

_Do you reckon maybe it's a Death Eater using Polyjuice? I asked my dad if Lockhart was still in St. Mungo's, but he said he wasn't sure, he'd ask around at work, but I'll let you know when he gets back to me... My dad thought I was just curious, you know, but Ginny's been looking at me funny ever since, she thinks something must be up for me to ask such a random... Anyway, be careful, don't do anything stupid. _

_You'll be out of there soon anyway, although I don't know the details. I overheard Fred and George talking to Dad about something big and secretive happening next week, so hopefully I'll see you soon._

_Ron_

Harry did not feel even the slightest bit relieved having read the letters. If anything, they only added to his confusion. Part of what Hermione had said made sense: he _was _supposed to be protected here at the Dursleys, and Lockhart had walked right into the front hall without any problems. So did that mean Lockhart didn't want to hurt him? Was that how it worked? He wished that Dumbledore had explained to him how the protection functioned in a bit greater detail…

Dumbledore.

That was where he certainly disagreed with Hermione. Dumbledore was busy enough as it was, organizing the Order's resistance against Voldemort—surely he didn't need to be bothered with Lockhart's appearance, strange as it might seem, considering that nobody had actually been threatened in any way? Besides, Dumbledore had trusted Lockhart back in Harry's second year—now, it wasn't hard to imagine the headmaster advising Harry that _everyone_ deserved a second chance, no matter how they might have acted in the past.

Harry looked out his window at number seven, once again, and shook his head. The house was utterly unthreatening. It looked just as it had always looked, before Harry had ever thought to pay it the slightest bit of attention—indeed, it looked just like all the other houses on Privet Drive. It was more than a bit hard to believe there was a real danger to beware inside that house—even if he had seen Lockhart with his own eyes.

But then—just as he was watching the house—he thought he saw something peculiar. Had that been the flash of a spell illuminating one of the windows on the first floor? It was gone as soon as it had come, so Harry couldn't be sure. Maybe it was just a trick of the light—the sun shone as bright as ever, reflecting bright off of the windowpanes of number seven. There was no way to know for sure—unless it happened again.

And so, Harry continued to watch—and watch, and watch. Nothing else appeared for a few minutes—and Harry was about to resign himself to another long day of futile snooping when, quite unexpectedly, the front door of number seven burst open and Gilderoy Lockhart appeared. This in itself was nothing new—Lockhart had, of course, emerged far too often for Harry's tastes, seeming always intent on an afternoon with Aunt Petunia—but this time, he was not empty-handed. Instead, he held a very large platter, which served as a showcase for a most elaborately assembled pudding—far more impressive than the one Aunt Petunia had carried across the street in the opposite direction, a few days before. Lockhart seemed almost sickeningly pleased with his creation from the look upon his face, and began to whistle a merry tune as he made his way across Privet Drive, being sure to look both ways before stepping into the road, his elegant confection sparkling in the sunlight.

Harry switched positions, hurrying back to his place by the bedroom door, to listen to the conversation as it drifted up from the front hall.

"Oh! Gil, it's simply lovely…"

"You inspired me, Petunia, I simply had to try one of my own!"

There was that voice again—so familiar, so false. Harry wasn't sure if he could take very much more of it. He held his wand, clasped in his hand—part of him longed to simply confront the man, to demand he reveal what he was up to. It wouldn't really be illegal, would it? He wouldn't be using magic in front of anybody who didn't already know about it. But then, if Lockhart were really up to no good, Harry had no idea what he _was_ up to, and so he couldn't very well prepare for how he might react.

"It seems such a shame to waste this on just the two of us," said Aunt Petunia, her voice glowingly affectionate. "It's so beautiful, you ought to throw a dinner party or something, show it off to all the neighbors…"

"But I made it for you," said Lockhart, his voice turning silky in a way Harry didn't like at all. He wished—for perhaps the first time in his life—that Uncle Vernon would come home early. Harry imagined Petunia's blush was lighting up the entire downstairs.

"Oh, Gil…"

"You go on, try it first… I'm just dying to know what you think!"

Harry heard the gentle clinks of dishes and silverware as Petunia prepared to eat her helping of the pudding. After a minute, the sound of enjoyment, and then:

"Oh, it's delicious, Gil! Simply to die for…"

Another clink as she hurried to take another bite.

"Oh, I am _so_ glad you like it," said Lockhart, his wide smile evident in his tone.

"Aren't you going to eat any yourself?" asked Petunia, still eating bite after bite.

"Oh, I don't think so," said Lockhart. "I'm stuffed, simply stuffed. But you have plenty of mouths to feed over here… I'm sure your son would enjoy it very much, and your nephew… Harry, yes?"

Petunia's tone became notably less natural.

"Oh. Yes. Harry. Lovely boy."

"Pity he didn't stick around to chat when I met him," said Lockhart. "Seemed to be such a charming chap."

"Oh, he is, certainly," said Petunia. She paused, and then, uncertainly: "You don't mind if I have just a little bit more…?"

"Oh no, certainly, go right ahead, it's all yours. But what was I saying? Ah, yes. Harry, Harry. I would love to speak to him some time. Perhaps he would like to visit me across the road sometime, for tea?"

Petunia sounded even odder than before, when she answered. "Oh yes, that's a fabulous idea. He is such a delightful young man. I'm sure he would love to."

"Oh, jolly good!" said Lockhart. "Ah, look at the time! I do have to be getting back, there is something I've got to be working on at home, but I hope you enjoy the rest of the pudding, and be sure to share with your lovely boys! Harry can visit any time he likes, I'll be at home all afternoon."

"Oh, don't go so soon—?" said Petunia, struggling to swallow a mouthful while speaking, which was more than a bit shockingly rude for _her._ "Vernon won't be home for another hour at the least—"

"I'm sorry, dear, I must be going!"

And then, with a soft smacking noise that sounded alarmingly like a kiss, he left. (Harry could only hope it had been on Petunia's cheek, but he didn't like thinking about anything of the sort, regardless.)

As soon as the door had shut, Petunia's voice rang out up the stairs:

"HARRY POTTER! DUDLEY! COME DOWN HERE!"

Harry blinked, unsure of what to do—she would surely be trying to convince him to go over to Lockhart's house. Reason (which sounded an awful lot like Hermione) told him that venturing into the house of a man who'd attacked him, for a spot of tea, would probably be more than a bit unwise. At the same time, there was the nagging longing to discover what on earth Lockhart was up to—and maybe, that would be revealed to him if he went to number seven…

"WHY?" hollered Dudley from his room.

"There's puddi—" began Petunia, but before she had finished the word, Dudley's bedroom door slammed open, and Dudley himself began thundering down the stairs. Harry grabbed his wand, tucked it into his pocket, covered it with the end of his t-shirt, and followed his cousin.

By the time he reached the kitchen, Dudley was already decimating an overly large serving of the dessert, and Petunia had a much smaller dish in her hands. She offered it to Harry, who shook his head.

"Oh, I insist," said Petunia, smiling an unnatural smile. "It's just _scrumptious_. Truly."

Harry took the plate and sat down at the table. He didn't eat it—instead, he watched Dudley as he devoured his own serving with Olympic speed.

"Harry," said Petunia, still using that strange, most unPetuniaish voice. "Gil invited you over to his house today for tea, and I have to insist you oblige. We have to be good neighbors, after all…"

"Aunt Petunia," he said. "How much do you really know about this Gil fellow?"

"What do you mean?" she demanded. "He's a wonderful man—isn't he, Dudley? Wouldn't _you _go over there if Gil were to invite you so graciously into his home?"

Harry looked back to Dudley, who had always seemed just as disapproving of Lockhart as his father. Surely Dudley would—

"Oh definitely," Dudley said, nodding vigorously as he shoveled more pudding into his mouth. "I love Gil."

Harry raised an eyebrow at his bulging cousin. It seemed that the pudding had cleared away all Dudley's doubts about Lockhart, which wasn't exactly surprising.

"Really, though," he said. "You just met him a week ago, and now you're—"

"Harry Potter, don't you dare insinuate that Gil is anything but the finest of gentlemen—_you _only met him for a few seconds, I hardly think _you _are qualified to judge his character—"

"Actually," said Harry, "I've known him for years."

Petunia furrowed her brow, confused. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Harry thought this might be the best tactic—maybe Petunia would refuse to have anything to do with Lockhart if she knew the truth. She had always despised magic, after all…

"Well," he said. "You're not going to believe me, but Gil is a wiz—"

"DON'T YOU DARE!" shouted Aunt Petunia, suddenly fuming. "You will not besmirch Gil's name in my house—you'll go over there this instant or you'll not be eating any meals for the rest of the holidays!" And with that, she grabbed the plate of pudding from Harry's place at the table and marched away with it, slamming it down onto the counter as an exclamation point.

Evidently, she did not believe him.

Harry sighed, eyeing the pudding as it sparkled in the bright sunlight of the countertop. Suddenly, he recalled the flash of light he thought he'd seen earlier, just before Lockhart had appeared with the pudding the _first _time he'd seen it sparkle in the sun. Looking back at his aunt, acting so strangely, the pieces connected in Harry's brain: Lockhart must have tampered with this pudding.

He grasped the handle of his wand, beneath the table, and resolved himself: if Lockhart was going to magically convince Harry's relatives into doing his bidding—getting Harry to come across the street—then Harry would have to confront him. Lockhart was hardly the greatest duelist in the world, anyway—surely Harry would be able to handle anything he might throw his way.

"All right," said Harry. "I'll go have tea with Gil."

"Off you go, then," said Petunia, and before Harry had made it to the front door, she was eating his untouched plate of pudding, making savory noises and seeming to enjoy herself beyond measure. Harry found this somewhat disconcerting.

It was overwhelmingly warm outside. Harry was used to the heat, spending most of his days with his bedroom window open to spite the Dursley's air conditioning, so that owls could come and go freely, but still, he found the air exceedingly oppressive as he stepped out the front door. It was as though his whole body was about an inch from the fire in the Gryffindor common room—and he found himself wishing that he owned a pair of short pants.

There were, of course, more important things to worry about at the moment, however—what would he find inside the house across the street? What if the living room was filled with Death Eaters? What if it was all just a clever trap, to lure him into Voldemort's clutches? That seemed unlikely, what with the protective charms of Privet Drive—but still, he held his wand tightly, while trying to keep it hidden.

He rang the doorbell of number seven—it chimed a loud, cheerful song for a moment, before the door sprung open, and Harry was met with the familiar face of Gilderoy Lockhart.

"Harry, Harry, Harry!" Lockhart exclaimed, sing-song and cheery. "How delightful to see you again! Come inside, come inside—it has been _too long…_"

There it was—he knew.

As soon as Lockhart shut the door behind him, Harry raised his wand.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, expecting Lockhart to pull out his own at any moment.

"Ah, ha ha!" chortled Lockhart. "I see you're not using the proper dueling position—now, didn't I teach you anything at my little Dueling Club, dear boy? Come now, let's get that tea—"

"_What…_" Harry repeated, unrelenting, "…are you doing here?"

"Oh do be patient, we'll get to that in a moment—won't you make yourself at home, first?"

Despite himself, Harry took his eyes off of Lockhart and glanced around the place—the room itself appeared precisely the same as the Dursleys' front hall, only reversed. At first, he thought it was painted a different color as well, but on second glance, the abundance of brown surrounding him was not the walls at all, but an inordinate amount of cardboard boxes. Evidently, Lockhart had yet to finish unpacking.

"I'll put on the tea," said Lockhart, "you go have a seat in the living room. You'll know where it is, of course…" He trailed off, disappearing into the kitchen.

Harry, somewhat reluctantly, did as he was told. The living room was, once again, filled to the brim with cardboard, although it also held a pale purple loveseat with a fancy-looking gold design embroidered on the cushions, and a matching armchair. Harry sat in the chair—somewhat worried that if he chose the larger couch, Lockhart might get it in his head to sit directly beside him—and from his new vantage point, he could see another notable item which was very definitely not encapsulated in cardboard.

Above the fireplace, where in the Dursleys' household resided an assortment of photographs of Dudley at various stages of rotund childhood, Lockhart had situated a large, golden mirror. It was ornately crafted—very reminiscent, Harry thought, of the Mirror of Erised, but considerably smaller. Harry looked at himself in the mirror for a minute, half expecting to see his family reflected beside him, but no—it was just him. The only difference he could see was that his lightning scar was facing the opposite direction—which was to be expected, of course.

The high-pitched whistle of a teakettle stirred Harry from his reverie, and he looked away from the beautiful mirror—Lockhart soon appeared with the steaming hot pot of tea, along with two mugs dangling by their handles from the fingers unengaged by the pot. He nudged a cardboard box over to the couches with his foot, placed the tea and the mugs atop it, and sat down on the loveseat Harry had declined.

"Now," said Lockhart, pouring two mugs of tea, "I suppose you're wondering what I'm doing here!" He chuckled and took a sip of his own tea.

"Yes," said Harry, accepting his mug with one hand but placing it right back down on the cardboard-box-cum-coffee-table. His wand was still at the ready, although it didn't seem that Lockhart had his own anywhere handy.

"Well," said Lockhart, "I have just been released from that dreadful hospital! And I am eager to get back to work, you know—"

Harry blinked.

"What do you mean, get back to work? You don't think—after all you did—you don't think you're going to go back to teaching at Hogwarts—"

"Oh no, no, of course not!" said Lockhart hurriedly. "Well. I suppose I should start from the beginning, eh?"

"That would be fine with me," said Harry.

"Well. Let's see. When I was about to be released from St. Mungo's, the Healers—dreadful, just dreadful people, really—they encouraged me to remain in the Muggle world, you see, until I'm fully back up to snuff in all senses, back up to my usual magical expertise—well. They certainly expected a bit more of me in that regard, didn't they? Thought I'd be charming the pants off of all the witches—oh dear, that was a terrible example, but you know what I mean! They—well, they thought I'd be quite tremendously magical, you know, from what I wrote—"

"—from all your lies, you mean," Harry reminded him.

"Tsk tsk, it's rude to interrupt, Harry. Where was I? Ah yes. They felt it would be best if I tried my darnedest to blend in for the time being, and told me to pick any nice little Muggle village and they would clear up all the details—I could move right in, you know. And I thought to myself, what on earth am _I_ going to do in the Muggle world?"

So far this sounded quite a lot like Hermione's theory. Harry wasn't sure if he believed it, however. Lockhart continued:

"Well—then I said to myself—what is my _calling_? And of course! I am a born writer, as you know, and who did _I_ know who would be just _fascinating_ to write about?"

Harry was quite sure, from past experience, that Lockhart's next word would be "ME!" or "Myself!" but instead, he said:

"Why, you of course! The Muggles will think your life is just remarkably good story-telling, won't they? They'll be simply enchanted! A fantasy novel! "Harry Potter"—such a ring to it, such a glorious ring to it, as a title, you know. And so I told my Healers, my awful companions of so many empty years, I told them: Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. They thought nothing of it, of course. But here I am! And now it comes to the kicker, the climax, the big moment: Harry, I simply must interview you, if you would let me? Please, dear boy. My livelihood depends on it."

Harry could hardly believe he hadn't heard wrong—perhaps he had fallen asleep, very suddenly, and dreamt that Lockhart had said… that? It seemed so silly, so innocuous, so anticlimactic.

"Let me get this all straight," he said. "You're here—after all this time, after trying to erase me and Ron's memories, you get out of the hospital and you've moved in across the street from me—and you make friends with my aunt, and you give her that pudding to make me come across the street to talk to you… because you want to write a book?"

"Precisely!" exclaimed Lockhart, clearly delighted that Harry had followed along satisfactorily. "Exactly true!"

"You… want to write a children's book about my life and publish it as fiction? For Muggles to buy?"

Lockhart looked slightly puzzled, now. "Why, yes," he said. "That's what I've just told you."

Harry still wasn't sure if he could believe this—if Lockhart's words were to be taken at face value. But it certainly didn't sound like Voldemort at work, anymore—this sounded very much like Lockhart being Lockhart.

"Not a chance," he said.

Lockhart's face fell dramatically. "But why?" he asked.

"I'm not going to sell my life story to you, or to anybody else—" His mind wandered back to Rita Skeeter's attempts to report on his life, two years before, and how terribly that whole situation had been. He didn't feel like repeating it, even if no one would know the stories were true.

Lockhart did not seem ready to take no for an answer.

"Oh, _please_, Harry—don't make me beg—I'm a poor man, you know—hospital bills are absolutely through the roof these days, you have no idea… I would pass a certain percentage onto you, of course…"

"I'm not interested in your money, Lockhart, and I'm not going to help you."

"Oh, dear, dear boy, please—just imagine it! The long-awaited return of Gilderoy Lockhart to the bestseller lists! Not quite the same lists, of course—but still—"

"No."

Harry stood. Lockhart looked miserably disappointed, and he didn't feel like watching him mope about—it was not an attitude that suited him, and really, it was somewhat unsettling to see.

"I think I'm done here," he said, and headed back for the front door.

"But—you haven't even touched your tea!"

Harry almost laughed. Did Lockhart really think he would be so stupid as to drink the tea, after what he'd done to Petunia's pudding?

"No thanks," said Harry. And with one last glance at the ornate mirror above the fireplace, Harry left number seven, Privet Drive behind, its inhabitant dismally glum upon his purple loveseat. Harry was nearly halfway across the street when he heard a strange whistling sound—almost like the sound of the air whizzing past on a broomstick—and he stopped, turning to glance down the street for the source of the noise. His eyes widened—he couldn't move, even though he knew he should.

An enormous Ferris wheel was rolling, speeding towards him down the length of Privet Drive, faster than any car had ever done—and at the top, laughing manically as they piloted the wheel, were two very familiar, identical redheads.


End file.
